


Pisces

by Ryuki



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 11:57:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryuki/pseuds/Ryuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Korra meeting Amon a few years after the finale of LoK’s first season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pisces

This day was bound to come, Amon had foreseen it. Yet, as the group of young adults approached his paltry stall full of carved knick-knacks, the man couldn’t help but feel a sudden swell of sickness in his stomach. It had been four years, most of which was spent healing - to varying degrees - from Tarrlok’s attempted mercy-killing and spent making trinkets for tourists. Tarrlok had only halfway succeeded in his endeavor. Soon afterward, Amon almost wanted to finish what his brother had begun. A stubborn will to live wouldn’t allow him, though, despite how many times he tied the nooses or tested the edge of a knife against his arm.

From beneath his hood, Amon kept his eyes on the approaching figures, more interested in the leader. A young Water Tribe woman, with dark skin and dark hair and blue eyes full of intrigue. In place of her ponytail, however, Korra had begun to wear a braid. Undoubtedly as an homage to the late Sifu Katara.

As they neared, Amon bent his head down low, attempting to concentrate on the hand-carved Pai Sho tile he was in the process of painting.

Anticipation throbbed through Amon’s body, waiting for the group to approach him, to come to his stall as if delivered by Fate. His hand shook as he tried to remain precise with his art. Their voices were becoming louder - even against the chaos of the bazaar – and their voices recognizable despite the years. Their conversation became clearer, though it was a nonsensical topic and Amon couldn’t concentrate on the words. He only heard the lilt of their voices; the Sato heiress’s softness, the earthbenders boisterous amusement, the firebender’s raspy retorts.

He watched, under the lip of his hood, as their legs passed by his stall, toward the other end of the Earth Kingdom bazaar. Just as Amon was about to breathe a sigh of relief, he heard - for the first time in four years - the Avatar speak, “You guys go on and get something to eat, I wanna look at this stuff.”

“You sure?” The earthbender asked and Amon prayed she wasn’t.

“Yeah, go on! I’m a big girl, I can handle myself.”

Amon listened to the group scuffle away, rather slowly. Korra watched them go, before turning to his wares. She perused through the carvings - the Pai Sho tiles, the masks, the jewelry - he had to offer; bone carvings from past dinners. Living on a budget, he couldn’t waste anything.

“Cool stuff y’got here.”

Amon cautioned a gaze at her, watching as she picked up a pendant and examined it. He didn’t say a word, though. His gaze fell back to his hands as soon as Korra looked at him. Though death seemed like a pleasant option, Amon doubted the Avatar would give him that pleasure. No, he’d be dragged back to Republic City, put to trial, put on death row for the rest of his life where freedom was non-existant and death was a cloudier dream.

“Hello?” Korra’s waving hand brought Amon out of his thoughts. His gaze flickered to her, without thinking. Catching her blue eyes on his face, knowing in that split-second that she had seen him, he quickly snapped his eyes downward, fiddling with the tile in his fingers.

Korra leaned over the table, peering at his work. Amon tensed, waiting for her to say something, to yell, to throw a fireball at his face. Instead, Korra chattered on, “Hey! A fish tile, don’t see many of those. What’s it represent?”

“What?” He almost bit his tongue. She would recognize his voice; the voice that haunted her nightmares and made her awake in cold sweats; the voice that she trembled at every time she heard.

“Well, each Pai Sho tile represents something, right?” Korra flashed him a huge grin, as if happy he were speaking, “I always figured it had something to do with duality and balance. Two fish, swimming around each other, pulling each other through life.”

“I see.” Amon tried to soften his voice, to mask it. Though, Korra seemed ignorant of who he was.

“I’ve always wondered what would happen if one of the fish died, though. Would the other keep circling or just kind of belly-up from exhaustion and loneliness?”

Her words hit Amon straight in the gut. Slowly, he brought his gaze to Korra’s features, seeing that half-smirk curl at her lips. It was an expression he always wanted to knock off her face, but he realized he had missed those expressive eyes and that smug mouth. Nothing in the Avatar’s eyes spoke of anger, of rage, of disgust. There was a level of uncertainty, but Amon was shocked at how calm she seemed about all this.

“In case you didn’t catch that, this isn’t about Pai Sho tiles anymore.” Delicately, Korra placed the pendant she had been holding back on the table. She planted her hands and leaned forward, peering into Amon’s hood with a critical eye. He saw the scars on the side of his face reflect in her gaze. He nearly turned away from embarrassment. To have the Avatar see him in such a pathetic state sickened him, “Tarrlok is sorry, by the way, for blowing up the boat.”

“Tell him I apologize for not dying.” Amon’s words, raspy from disuse, felt heavy under his thick tongue. Korra’s eyes softened further at his words. The man almost cringed. Instead, he added, “Will you take me back to Republic City, Avatar?”

He waited, in dead silence. Around them, the sounds of the bazaar bustled on. Children giggled and laughed, people conversed, heavy items clanged against the ground, vendors haggled. The scent of the nearby food stalls and a neighboring incense seller filled the air. Amon felt dizzy from the sudden onslaught on his senses.

“No.”

His eyebrows shot up, but his face remained stoic. Well, Amon assumed it did, “Then, why-”

“We can discuss that later.” Korra threw Amon a big grin. This time shock sped over his features, fueling her smiles. Yet, Amon couldn’t imagine Korra suffering through another conversation with him. Even if she had been in contact with his brother, what more could she possibly wish to talk to him about? Korra returned her eyes to the items atop the table, “You’re good with your hands.”

“You are very gracious, Avatar.” Amon bit out, attempting to sound modest and civil. Distaste, from residual emotions, was beginning to bubble up.

“You could come back to Republic City. Have a life there, not as a prisoner, but as a citizen.”

“But-”

“You’re scarred, so no one knows your face. It’s not uncommon for people to share similar voices and,” Korra’s eyes flickered around the bazaar. She seemed hesitant to add her last point.

“And…?” He prompted.

She turned her eyes to him, catching his light-blue gaze with her dark-blue one. Licking her lips, Korra finished, somewhat softly, “I’m sure other Noataks exist, so you could always use your birth-name.”

He felt a flush of heat crawl from his stomach, up his neck, and over his face. The man didn’t know why it mattered so much to him, to be referred to as Noatak, again. In the Earth Kingdom, he went as Lei; in Republic City, he had been Amon. Noatak seemed like a ghost, some days, but returning to the name felt quite appealing.

Part of him was tempted to return, despite the illogical notion of the action. To see how his Equalists were doing - he read of their conquests in the newspaper, but it seemed they had gone diplomatic, rather than radical - to see if bending gangs still ran rampant, and to see how his closest followers now did. There had been little about Masaru, his former lieutenant, and Amon often wondered if he had truly killed the sturdy non-bender. Thinking back on his transgressions on the city, Amon found himself shaking his head, “No, I…I don’t believe I can return.”

“Noatak.” He jumped, realizing that Korra had quietly made her way behind his table and stood beside him. Cursing himself for rusty senses, the man turned his gaze toward the Avatar’s new position, keeping his face impassive, trying to play off his earlier surprise. Korra’s serious look unnerved him. In the past, no matter how serious she had been, she had always shown a sliver of her silly nature. Again, it hit Amon how the years age people. He averted his gaze under the heat of her stare.

He tensed as Korra snagged his chin in her grip – her fingers soft and calloused - tilting his head up to face her. Amon’s stomach flipped, highly aware off the juxtaposition he was stuck in. Years ago, he had Korra in a similar position. The Avatar stared down at him, lips pressed together tightly, eyes narrowed. Suddenly, a soft smile split across her face, “Noatak, you gave non-benders a voice, courage, and a cause. Though your methods were violent, your intentions were decent.

“I forgave you a long time ago.”

His heart hurt, it suddenly throbbed with sharp pain and he couldn’t breathe and, momentarily, the man thought he was suffering from a heart attack.

Then Korra dipped down and pressed her lips against his forehead.

Again, the juxtaposition – or the parallel to his bending blocking? He wasn’t sure anymore, his brain was fried - of the action nearly made him shudder. The pain in his chest lessened, but was replaced with a tense, breathless sensation as tingles raced through his veins. He felt her warm, soft lips twist into a smile against his skin before she stood. Noatak stared up at Korra, wide-eyed and mouth slightly agape in shock.

“If you change your mind, I’ll be having dinner at Mung’s Diner.” Noatak felt Korra’s fingers slip from his face and he fought the urge to grab her hand, to press his scarred cheek to her palm, to have another’s skin against his flesh. He had spent too much time without companionship, realized Noatak, as he watched the Avatar waltz away. An emptiness flitted into his chest as she was swallowed up by a throng of Fire Nation tourists.

His eyes flickered down to the Pai Sho tile that he still fiddled with in his fingers. Noatak softly pressed his fingertips to his forehead, before calmly packing away his stall. He slowly wrapped the fragile masks and gingerly locked all of his work away – except the Fish tile - into a safe beneath his table, before cleaning up his paints and knives. Then, without a word and without a worry, the man stood and made his way to Mung’s Diner.


End file.
